


Break Me Down (Don't Build Me Up)

by Waffle-o (XylB)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: FAHC, GTA Universe, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:36:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10105613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XylB/pseuds/Waffle-o
Summary: God, Michael would let Ryan fucking tear him apart if he wanted. Rip apart the fire/anger/heat that swells in his ribs and threatens tochokehim when it's too much and not enough all at the same time and he needs an out.He just didn't expect it to end this way.





	

God, Michael would let Ryan fucking tear him apart if he wanted.

Problem is, that doesn't seem to be Ryan's style. But Michael would let him, if he wanted, let him bruise and shove and rake hot lines of fire on his thighs to match the knife scars littered on his ribs. Choke him with smoke and hands and _control_ him, fight him down until he's boneless.

Michael wants it so badly his hands shake, needing an outlet, a release, anything.

He finds fights, he finds death, he takes bets, he takes lives.

In the ring he forgets about mortality and only focuses on scratching that itch at the base of his skull that calls for blood, for bones, for _violence_.

He punches until his knuckles are numb and there's blood dripping steadily down his chin, split lip stinging with his grin. Someone kicked his ribs with steel-toed boots and he can't stop pressing on the bruise to feel it pulsate through him, something primal and pain-driven burning in him. A fire in his chest but he just drinks the water.

It happens one loud night when he's drunk on the streets of Los Santos, trying to make his way back to his apartment but ending up in Ryan's, an ache in his knuckles and in his teeth. He expects annoyance, anger, _something_ for showing up at two a.m. with more liquor in his veins than blood. Instead he gets calm, cool Ryan, guiding him to a sofa and giving him water and Michael snarls, shoves too hard to spark something, to show something, but he doesn't get fire and anger and the heat he's craving, he gets a strong grip on his wrists and his chest, Ryan holding him down so he doesn't punch. And Michael, Michael fights but Ryan doesn't react, keeps him down like a dog and it's not helping the burn simmering under his ribs.

Michael spits and shouts but he gets nothing and he leaves angry and frustrated.

Ryan could so easily break Michael down and build him up again, easy as the way he slits throats and shatters bones – and god, Michael would ask for it, would beg for it, but there's pride burning hot in his throat and desperation mixing dangerously with it.

He'd fall to fucking pieces under Ryan but he needs Ryan to make the first move, cut down his pride and replace it with orders, with heat and smoke and something.

So he fights and he kicks and he snaps and he shouts but nothing extinguishes the flames licking at his chest, the fury in his bones in those short-lived moments where he's too angry to think and he needs to _escape_ and he needs to _fight_.

Michael counts dirty bills with dirtier fingers and puts half of them on another fight, cocky with the victory and sore all over in a good way but not the best way. Not like the way Ryan could make him ache.

The next time he goes to Ryan's he's not drunk but he's angry, rage-filled and fire-fueled, angry at the cops and himself and everything because the job didn't go as well as it should have but he needed to keep it together to sew Gavin up, to find the _fucker_ that hurt him and put him down like an animal, to _hurt_. And now, now, in the single digits hours just after midnight, he lets the fire break and he lets it crawl up his spine and settle in his skull, the incessant need to punch and destroy, lets himself fall apart a little so he doesn't go crazy.

So he goes to Ryan's because that's where the itch drives him. His wrists ache for handcuffs and his hips ache for bruises and he wants it rough and he wants it dirty.

Ryan is no less cool than last time but Michael starts with anger this time, shoving past Ryan and stomping into the room but Ryan grabs his wrist, stops him short and glares at him. Michael grins at the reaction.

Ryan narrows his eyes. The door closes.

Anger pulses through Michael's heart.

“You want something, don't you?”

“Fuck me, Haywood.”

Ryan doesn't even take him to the bedroom, apparently fed up of Michael's snark when he tries to lead him down the hallway and he ends up pinning Michael against the wall, ordering him to _stay there_ and Michael does for a moment, suddenly dizzy with the turn of events and Ryan leaves but returns a minute later in a rush of heat.

Michael fights back against the hold but Ryan doesn't bruise him, doesn't push him and he makes Michael beg for it, for anything, but he doesn't give him blood and bruises and Michael seethes. His teeth ache with the desire, his lungs burn with the words he's not saying, that he doesn't want to say, that he wants Ryan to pry out of him with bloodstained fingers. He wants to be fucking _torn apart_ and Ryan won't fucking _do it_.

Ryan fucks him like that, up against the wall and halfway through, Michael can't feel anything but the numbing, punishing pace of Ryan's hips and he craves something hotter, something to match the flames inside him, but Ryan's dark and calm and Michael cracks, babbling and begging and freezes when Ryan laughs cruelly, pins him harder and fucks him harder and Michael's head spins with the filthy shit suddenly pouring from Ryan's mouth, all _desperate little slut_ and _baby just wanted a good fuck, didn't he?_ and Michael comes within minutes and he doesn't even realise the itch is gone until he's stopped marking up Ryan's wall.

Michael becomes strangely addicted to the low pitch of Ryan's voice, deep to match his thrusts as he humiliates Michael in all the best ways, soothing something burning in him and focusing the anger into a completely different direction. Michael would let Ryan tear him apart but Ryan doesn't need to, not physically, doesn't need to do a damn thing and Michael's his.

It's addicting in a different way than the fighting, the fast punches and quick dodges, hard kicks and harder falls. It's fast kisses and quick moments, hard thrusts and harder surfaces. The urge to _destroy_ , to _decimate_ , the urge becomes less about the bruises on his ribs and more about the bruises on his lips, less about the blood on his knuckles and more about the blood in his veins.

He's still fire and anger and pain and he still punches and he still bets and it burns like the sun inside him, twisting around his ribs and making him dizzy with the sheer rage making his fists ache to _hurt_ , to harm. Sometimes he fights and the split lip and black eye are worth the release.

Sometimes it's Ryan holding him down until Michael shakes apart, rage transmuting into a bass line of arousal that threatens to overwhelm him.

Somewhere down the line, Michael becomes dependent, becomes needy. He fights harder against Ryan and he breaks more easily and he tries to make it last before, inevitably, he has to go home.

Somewhere down the line, Ryan's thrusts get gentler and his hands softer, maybe a show of trust that Michael will obey or maybe a show of something else entirely, a possibility that sends a different kind of fire through Michael's veins.

Somewhere down the line, the outlet becomes the supplier.

Somewhere down the line, Michael falls in love.

He lets it tear him apart, stretch him thin and make him desperate and he craves the simpler days, when he could bury himself in blood and bones and guilt was a thing for fools. Michael wants to cut the feeling out and strangle it, set his heart on fire just to feel that familiar burn again.

Anger doesn't give the same thrill and Michael finds himself more and more in Ryan's hands, like an addict desperate for his fix but Michael needs double dosage. The anger turns on him, the anger _hurts_ him, _hurts_ him like it's never done before, draining instead of filling and Michael hates the sudden numbness frozen over his ribs, keeping all the words he wants to say locked in.

But Ryan gets them out, he always does. He can break Michael but this time Michael doesn't want to be rebuilt, perfectly happy to stay in fucking pieces where he doesn't have to deal with the rejection surely coming his way, stay in pieces until he figures out where the anger _went_.

The rejection never comes and next time Ryan doesn't need to hold Michael down because this time it's not about the fire and it's not about the violence, not about the blood and not about the bruises. This time it's about how many words Ryan can press into his skin before he comes and how many of them Michael can return in broken gasps between their mouths.

Michael wonders how many different ways he can say _I love you_ before he dies.


End file.
